Salt on the Wounds
by IDOL HANDS
Summary: A duo, consider all the things that sparkle in the world and what they’ve learned at the chocolate factory.  Wonka gets a surprise lesson of his own.  Could be considered a prequel to “Is It Scary”.  Warning: CHAN, dark


**Title:** Salt on the Wounds

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** R (for themes)

**Warnings:** chan, d/s, incest, implied slash

**Disclaimer:** The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl and Tim Burton.

**Summary:** In response to this week's prompt challenge on LiveJournal at "darksidewonka" on LiveJournal. A duo, consider all the things that sparkle in the world and what they've learned at the chocolate factory. Wonka gets a surprise lesson of his own.

**Author's Notes:** Thank you "stminority" and "zx2512" from LiveJournal, as well as a young Brooke Shields for inspiration. To see my reference photo go to i13(dot)photobucket(dot)com(slash)albums(slash)a300(slash)idolhands(slash)BrookeShilds(dot)jpg – It is beautiful, but features tasteful nudity of a minor.

Theme music can be found by typing www(dot)mediafire(dot)com(slash)?7o4vyhsw6xn. Put dots and slashes where the words are. It is "Bang Bang" by David Bowie. Reference to an image of the Salt family: i13(dot)photobucket(dot)com(slash)albums(slash)a300(slash)idolhands(slash)2004-12-20-charlie02(dot)jpg

"**But I want it!"**

Sparkle.

A word of fantasy and glamour, like the glimmer of money, gold and diamonds.

Sparkle.

The reflection in Willy Wonka's penetrating stare, revealing every dirty deal I'd ever committed to obtain such things.

Sparkle.

Stars dancing as dusk falls, money can't buy them, any more than it can buy love.

Sparkle.

Drops of water slide down taught, smooth skin – cleansing as they sully.

"Hmf. He's _really_ rich. Much richer than you." The titled, cat eyes had trailed back toward the looming shadow of the chocolate factory. "I wish Willy Wonka was my daddy. Then I'd already have a trained squirrel, a flying glass elevator, a candy forest AND Oompa-loompas to dance for me."

I glared down her in shock for the second time that day and gritted my teeth, "Get. Into. The car."

After the bizarre tour, my daughter and I could not journey back to our mansion in the state we'd left the chocolate factory. Dripping of fetid material and retched smells, bearing more of a similarity to Willy Wonka's rotted mental state than to society's elite.

Or maybe he wasn't so crazy, maybe he knew exactly what he was doing…

There had been no point in calling her mother. At that time in the afternoon the woman was surely passed out drunk in the parlor somewhere. I could imagine the rim of a fallen martini glass catching the light off one of our antique rugs…sparkling.

My wife, had never truly sparkled to me, it was her family name and connections. But Veruca did. She was my everything -- the culmination of all I ever wanted; a flawless gem, a perfect sculpture, prima ballerina, petit princess, darling daughter. When she smiled, I sparkled inside. So I kept giving and giving; showing my love and pride, my guilt for not being in her life more, my annoyance at her mother for being such a waste. It got harder and harder to win those ear to ear smiles, those brief seconds where she looked at me like I was maybe as special to her as she was to me.

_**I**_ won her that golden ticket, one of five in the whole world. I won her national attention /a and a television debut (that was good for my business too). Everything bought with _**my**_ money. But how does this child thank me? How?!

"_I wish Willy Wonka was my daddy."_

My usually cool, blue blood boiled. I commanded the limousine driver to take us to the nearest hotel. As we pulled in, it was apparent that the establishment was low-class and run-down. It made Veruca sneer. I was glad.

The driver booked the room. He kept a driving glove pressed to his mouth, trying not retch at our odor. I'd repay him later.

Inside the room looked like a droll, white trash nightmare; dull colors of past decades, dingy windows, yellowed wallpaper. Who knows how many occupants had used it or for what. Our dirt shouldn't make any difference, I thought.

I take off my coat and jacket, searched my pocket for the wallet. Under my breath I hiss, "Damn."

"How long do we have to stay here?" Veruca had thrown her mink coat into the trash basket and plopped onto the bed, unconcerned with making a mess on the tacky comforter. It wouldn't be her mess to clean. None ever was.

"As long as it takes." I reply.

Grabbing the remote, she proceeds to turn on the old television set. Before the channel comes into focus a reporter was heard to announce that Willy Wonka was giving his entire factory to that poor, uneducated, quiet little boy. I forgot his name until they said it. Charlie. Charlie Bucket. The candymaker wouldn't SELL me a single rodent but he'd _give_ away his entire factory?! Reality seemed to shift under my ruined, thousand dollar shoes. Up was down and down was up in this sleepy town.

"Ugh! I should have pretended to be friends with him instead of Violet." Veruca crossed her arms and pouted.

This was all she could think of? This was the sum of what she'd learned? Maybe my wife didn't make such a terrible mistake nearly naming her after a wart, missed by one letter "r". I tremor at anticipation of the next sentence, hoping my daughter won't say it, but knowing she will…

"I want a chocolate factory!"

I look down at her in calm disgust, "And you'd have it if Willy Wonka was your daddy, wouldn't you? But I doubt you'd like him very much. He seems like the type who demands a lot of control. If you'd been better behaved maybe you'd have a trained squirrel, Oompa what-ever-they-are and an edible playground. You cost me a valuable business partner too, have you thought of that young lady?!"

Her mouth dropped open in sheer outrage. She threw the remote straight at the television, killing whatever spark of life it had left. Wet pin curls threw debris all around, face scrunched into fury, tiny hands formed into fists and pounding the mattress. "It's not MY fault! It's not, it's not, it's _noooot_!! I deserve it! I deserve it all, not stupid Charlie no-class Bucket!!!"

Baffling before, the taunting song of the elfish workers replays clearly in my head:

_**The one's who spoiled her**_

_**Who indeed?**_

_**Who pandered to her every need?**_

_**Who turned her into such a brat?**_

_**Who are the culprits? **_

_**Who did that?**_

_**The guilty ones **_

_**now this is sad**_

_**Dear Old Mum and Loving… **_

_**Dad.**_

An angel transformed into a devil before my eyes. I'd seen it a hundred times before. I loosened my stained, satin tie and slid it off.

Gently I approached her, "You're right, kitten. It's not your fault."

"It's mine. Mr. Wonka has made me see that." I hold her hands, the two easily fitting into my one. Veruca sniffled, calming.

Feeling like a man possessed, I reach down to the cute Mary Jane shoes, undoing the snaps to pull them off. Maybe the only way to rescue your daughter from a bottomless pit of self-destruction was indeed to plunge even deeper into that well of depravity. Firmly I grip the stretchy material of the tights with tiny embodied hearts and start to tug them off. Veruca sniffles again but it has a confused connotation.

Speaking again, I say with innuendo, "And you do deserve it all."

"All the humiliation. In fact, from now on, you are going to do everything I say or you're going to get _royally_ punished."

My princess laughs, a sparkling, dismissive sound, crinkling like a candy wrapper. She thinks I'm kidding. Of course she does. 12 years she's gone without a single form of discipline. Legs as slender and graceful as a newborn fawn kick at me, I grip them by the ankles and swiftly secure my necktie around, tightly.

Her laughter stops. She huffs, "Da-_dee_."

I fling her over my shoulder and stand up. The dress and cotton panties should be easy enough to remove at this point. Those diminutive fists pounding away actually feel good against tense back muscles. I should teach her how to do massage, make her useful for a change.

I repeat my demand from earlier, "We are going to take a bath. And that's final."

"Together?!" Veruca shouts in protest.

"Saves water. It's time you learned the value of a pound as well. I'm sure the Bucket boy does it and Mr. Wonka picked him as the winner, didn't he?" For the first time in a long time I feel virile. Without the aid of any blue pill from a first rate doctor, I might add.

I lock the bathroom door behind me.

The platinum buckle of an alligator belt had sparkled as it had struck flawless ivory skin, but she hadn't cried again - will power proving far stronger than her waifish figure. There was stinging in other areas too, memories of other swollen red body parts. She'd suspected such perverse things even before they got thrust upon her. More than once, she'd caught her mother with the exotic pool boy, feeling new urges in her developing body while spying on them.

Passions ran high on both sides during this forbidden encounter - screaming and struggling, resistance leading to an ultimate submission, secret desires repressed on both sides. Her father's skin also bore fresh red marks, those of bites and fingernail scratches; first from anger, then from pleasure.

That was over an hour ago. The girl lifted her head and looked over at the satisfied father drifting asleep in the next bed. He'd laid the child down and tucked her in before retiring; apologetic without apology, father-like and doting again. Veruca mused that she'd always thought her father was handsome with his height and full head of silver hair, better looking than her friend's daddies, but not as good-looking as Willy Wonka had been. Such a terribly _weird_ man he was though.

The phone suddenly rang.

She panicked, managing not to scream. What if it woke her father and made him angry again? Fear was a new exciting emotion. Quickly she picked up the receiver, its curled cord matching her freshly cleaned locks.

"Hello." She whispered.

"Hullo, little girl. Is your d-d-fa-, blrg, uh, Mister Salt available?"

Speaking of fear. A shiver struck her in the steam filled room. Who couldn't recognize that eerie voice even if it rudely didn't introduce itself? But she wasn't afraid of Willy Wonka, she kept telling herself, like he was the boogeyman. Besides, he couldn't even say certain simple words. "My _father_ is taking a nap. May I take a message?"

"Yeah. Tell him that I've tracked down your hotel and I'm having new clothes sent to the room, along with his wallet that the Oompa-loompas found in the garbage heap."

She rolled over onto her stomach, her father snoring gently in the background. This evening was getting even more naughty. With less snobbery in her tone than during the tour she politely answered, "Thank you. That's quite kind of you, Mr. Wonka."

"Not really. I charged everything to his accounts and added a hefty tip." The statement was punctuated by the chocolatier's childish giggle. "I figure that oughta' teach him a lesson."

A leftover pulse of pain and pleasure registered at her groin, "Yes, I…I suppose it will."

"And what about you?" The tone deepened. "Have you learned any new _lessons_ today, little girl?"

Wonka whispered as Veruca had been doing, "Wanna tell me about them?"

She twisted onto her side cupping a hand over the receiver and her mouth. The sheet slipped down as she did so, exposing puffy nipples at the beginning of budding breasts. She was being indulgent in conversing, wondering what pleased this richer, more powerful man; tempted to give in to the request to talk dirty to a near stranger. Maybe only a tidbit instead. A tease. "I would but that would probably get my father arrested."

There was a pant, she heard the click of his tongue slipping across his lips. Jackpot. His pitch rose again, "…R-really? So um, why…why dontcha' call the police and tell them then?"

"Because…", She began, twirling the cord, whispering lower in her young, seductive British accent. "it means that from now on, I _**own**_ him."

A wicked laugh rang in her ear, echoing as if in a cavern. An unseen but imagined wide smile, each of those flat, smooth teeth sparkling. Wonka took a breath, "What a sinfully shrewd business sensee, but ya see, that's another reason why I couldn't pick you."

"_Nobody_ owns me."

She'd swear she'd just done a pretty good job of that, but thought back to certain exchanges and glances during the tour. Remembered who'd actually won. So why was he on the phone with her instead? Trouble in Toyland?

Arrogance returned to the girl's voice, peppered sweetness to match the chocolatier's, "Oh, I think a little somebody does."

There was silence at the other end. Telling silence.

She heard the gloves squelch as they clutched at the phone. She couldn't know, no one knew, that Charlie Bucket had turned down his magnificent offer, wounded his pride and something else he couldn't define. The candyman whispered again, pain under frustration. "You wouldn't understand. His soul…it...it sparkles."

"Of course I do, Mr. Wonka. Everybody wants something that sparkles, but the most _delicious_ sort is the kind that sparkles for you and you alone. You're lucky to find such a thing even once in your life. Right?"

A strangled sound answers.

Mr. Salt stirred, muttering his daughter's name softly, lovingly. It was wrong to enjoy that, but the girl gave a smirk from her geisha-shaped lips. Standing up to lay naked and clean as the day she was born beside him. Willy Wonka had denied her the special prize from the tour, had helplessly plunged her instead at the bottom of a stinking pit that lead to this most peculiar (though promising) situation. Her father tried to save her from one torment only to expose her to know ones. Alice never dreamt of _this_ Hades. But maybe…she really had learned something from it. Learned more than the rabbit in the velvet tailcoat actually. Why should they be the only ones left sore?

Veruca added a satisfying last sting into the weakened chocolatier's spirit. "Even your fame and fortune can't buy it or your trinkets tempt it. Because when something is that pure, it has to be _given_."

And with that, she quietly placed the receiver back into its cradle. No hello. No goodbye. Seemed appropriate.

The little girl snuggled into the comforting warmth of her father, certain somehow, that the old chocolatier had nothing of the kind. An ugly room didn't matter anymore and neither did the factory. Instead, she was simply glad that this person was her daddy and hers alone. She didn't wish for anything different.

Sparkle.

Magic fading from a broken heart, alone, in the dark.


End file.
